There is quite a long list of “literary giants” whose work I have never read. From time to time I make resolutions to shorten the list, to read even just one work of a celebrated writer I have so far overlooked, and plug a hole in my ignorance. A planned family visit to Lisbon (that never happened) led me to the shelves in Daunt Books in Marylebone set aside for books by Portuguese writers, and it was there I spotted Saramago. Other than the fact that he came from Portugal and had been awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, I knew nothing about him. There must have been some uncertainty at work in the back of my mind because I chose a small volume of reminiscences, leaving on the shelves the longer (and reputedly challenging) novels. With the planned trip abandoned, I put Small Memories aside for a few weeks. It’s a simple collection of reminiscences from Saramago’s childhood in Azinhaga and Lisbon in the 1920s and 1930s, told directly and without affectation. There is such warmth in his recollection of incidents and experiences, and of family and school friends, and such vividness in his retelling of the unexceptional events of his early life. Saramago’s boyhood was one of poverty and simplicity, but there is no trace of bitterness or self-pity to be found in Small Memories. I can’t say it made me want to delve further into his work, but I enjoyed every page of this short, touching memoir.